Table Of ContentThe Project Gutenberg EBook of Jack Tier or The Florida Reef by James
Fenimore Cooper (#10 in our series by James Fenimore Cooper)
Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright
laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this or any other
Project Gutenberg eBook.
This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg
file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the header without written
permission.
Please read the “legal small print,” and other information about the eBook and
Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is important information
about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used. You can
also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get
involved.
**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****
Title: Jack Tier or The Florida Reef
Author: James Fenimore Cooper
Release Date: December, 2003 [EBook #4796] [Yes, we are more than one year
ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on March 22, 2002]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, JACK TIER OR THE
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, JACK TIER OR THE
FLORIDA REEF ***
Edited by Charles Aldarondo ([email protected])
JACK TIER;
OR
THE FLORIDA REEF.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,”
“WING AND WING,” “MILES WALLINGFORD,” ETC.
PREFACE.
This work has already appeared in Graham’s Magazine, under the title of “Rose
Budd.” The change of name is solely the act of the author, and arises from a
conviction that the appellation given in this publication is more appropriate than
the one laid aside. The necessity of writing to a name, instead of getting it from
the incidents of the book itself, has been the cause of this departure from the
ordinary rules.
When this book was commenced, it was generally supposed that the Mexican
war would end, after a few months of hostilities. Such was never the opinion of
the writer. He has ever looked forward to a protracted struggle; and, now that
Congress has begun to interfere, sees as little probability of its termination, as on
the day it commenced. Whence honourable gentlemen have derived their notions
of the constitution, when they advance the doctrine that Congress is an American
Aulic council, empowered to encumber the movements of armies, and, as old
Blucher expressed it in reference to the diplomacy of Europe, “to spoil with the
pen the work achieved by the sword,” it is difficult to say more than this, that
they do not get them from the constitution itself. It has generally been supposed
that the present executive was created in order to avoid the very evils of a
distracted and divided council, which this new construction has a direct tendency
to revive. But a presidential election has ever proved, and probably will ever
prove, stronger than any written fundamental law.
We have had occasion to refer often to Mexico in these pages. It has been our
aim to do so in a kind spirit; for, while we have never doubted that the factions
which have possessed themselves of the government in that country have done
us great wrong, wrong that would have justified a much earlier appeal to arms,
we have always regarded the class of Mexicans who alone can properly be
we have always regarded the class of Mexicans who alone can properly be
termed the `people,’ as mild, amiable, and disposed to be on friendly terms with
us. Providence, however, directs all to the completion of its own wise ends. If
the crust which has so long encircled that nation, enclosing it in bigotry and
ignorance, shall now be irretrievably broken, letting in light, even Mexico
herself may have cause hereafter to rejoice in her present disasters. It was in this
way that Italy has been, in a manner, regenerated; the conquests of the French
carrying in their train the means and agencies which have, at length, aroused that
glorious portion of the earth to some of its ancient spirit. Mexico, in certain
senses, is the Italy of this continent; and war, however ruthless and much to be
deplored, may yet confer on her the inestimable blessings of real liberty, and a
religion released from “feux d’artifice,” as well as all other artifices.
A word on the facts of our legend. The attentive observer of men and things has
many occasions to note the manner in which ordinary lookers on deceive
themselves, as well as others. The species of treason portrayed in these pages is
no uncommon occurrence; and it will often be found that the traitor is the loudest
in his protestations of patriotism. It is a pretty safe rule to suspect the man of
hypocrisy who makes a parade of his religion, and the partisan of corruption and
selfishness, who is clamorous about the rights of the people. Captain Spike was
altogether above the first vice; though fairly on level, as respects the second,
with divers patriots who live by their deity.
CHAPTER I.
Pros.
Why, that’s my spirit! But was not this nigh shore?
Ariel.
Close by, my master.
Pros.
But are they, Ariel, safe?
Ariel.
Not a hair perished:
Tempest.
“D’ye here there, Mr. Mulford?” called out Capt. Stephen Spike, of the half-
rigged, brigantine Swash, or Molly Swash, as was her registered name, to his
mate—“we shall be dropping out as soon as the tide makes, and I intend to get
through the Gate, at least, on the next flood. Waiting for a wind in port is
lubberly seamanship, for he that wants one should go outside and look for it.”
This call was uttered from a wharf of the renowned city of Manhattan, to one
who was in the trunk-cabin of a clipper-looking craft, of the name mentioned,
and on the deck of which not a soul was visible. Nor was the wharf, though one
of those wooden piers that line the arm of the sea that is called the East River,
such a spot as ordinarily presents itself to the mind of the reader, or listener,
when an allusion is made to a wharf of that town which it is the fashion of the
times to call the Commercial Emporium of America—as if there might very well
be an emporium of any other character. The wharf in question had not a single
vessel of any sort lying at, or indeed very near it, with the exception of the Molly
Swash. As it actually stood on the eastern side of the town, it is scarcely
necessary to say that such a wharf could only be found high up, and at a
considerable distance from the usual haunts of commerce. The brig lay more
than a mile above the Hook (Corlaer’s, of course, is meant—not Sandy Hook)
and quite near to the old Alms House—far above the ship-yards, in fact. It was a
solitary place for a vessel, in the midst of a crowd. The grum top-chain voice of
Captain Spike had nothing there to mingle with, or interrupt its harsh tones, and
it instantly brought on deck Harry Mulford, the mate in question, apparently
eager to receive his orders.
“Did you hail, Captain Spike?” called out the mate, a tight, well-grown, straight-
built, handsome sailor-lad of two or three-and-twenty—one full of health,
strength and manliness.
“Hail! If you call straining a man’s throat until he’s hoarse, hailing, I believe I
did. I flatter myself, there is not a man north of Hatteras that can make himself
heard further in gale of wind than a certain gentleman who is to be found within
a foot of the spot where I stand. Yet, sir, I’ve been hailing the Swash these five
minutes, and thankful am I to find some one at last who is on board to answer
minutes, and thankful am I to find some one at last who is on board to answer
me.”
“What are your orders, Capt. Spike?”
“To see all clear for a start as soon as the flood makes. I shall go through the
Gate on the next young flood, and I hope you’ll have all the hands aboard in
time. I see two or three of them up at that Dutch beer-house, this moment, and
can tell’em; in plain language, if they come here with their beer aboard them,
they’ll have to go ashore again.”
“You have an uncommonly sober crew, Capt. Spike,” answered the young man,
with great calmness. “During the whole time I have been with them, I have not
seen a man among them the least in the wind.”
“Well, I hope it will turn out that I’ve an uncommonly sober mate in the bargain.
Drunkenness I abominate, Mr. Mulford, and I can tell you, short metre, that I
will not stand it.”
“May I inquire if you ever saw me, the least in the world, under the influence of
liquor, Capt. Spike?” demanded the mate, rather than asked, with a very fixed
meaning in his manner.
“I keep no log-book of trifles, Mr. Mulford, and cannot say. No man is the worse
for bowsing out his jib when off duty, though a drunkard’s a thing I despise.
Well, well—remember, sir, that the Molly Swash casts off on the young flood,
and that Rose Budd and the good lady, her aunt, take passage in her, this
v’y’ge.”
“Is it possible that you have persuaded them into that, at last!” exclaimed the
handsome mate.
“Persuaded! It takes no great persuasion, sir, to get the ladies to try their luck in
that brig. Lady Washington herself, if she was alive and disposed to a sea-
v’y’ge, might be glad of the chance. We’ve a ladies’ cabin, you know, and it’s
suitable that it should have some one to occupy it. Old Mrs. Budd is a sensible
woman, and takes time by the forelock. Rose is ailin’—pulmonary they call it, I
believe, and her aunt wishes to try the sea for her constitution—”
“Rose Budd has no more of a pulmonary constitution than I have myself,”
interrupted the mate.
“Well, that’s as people fancy. You must know, Mr. Mulford, they’ve got all sorts
of diseases now-a-days, and all sorts of cures for’em. One sort of a cure for
consumption is what they tarm the Hyder-Ally—”
“I think you must mean hydropathy, sir—”
“Well it’s something of the sort, no matter what—but cold water is at the bottom
of it, and they do say it’s a good remedy. Now Rose’s aunt thinks if cold water is
what is wanted, there is no place where it can be so plenty as out on the ocean.
Sea-air is good, too, and by taking a v’y’ge her niece will get both requisites
together, and cheap.”
“Does Rose Budd think herself consumptive, Capt. Spike?” asked Mulford, with
interest.
“Not she—you know it will never do to alarm a pulmonary, so Mrs. Budd has
held her tongue carefully on the subject before the young woman. Rose fancies
that her aunt is out of sorts, and that the v’y’ge is tried on her account—but the
aunt, the cunning thing, knows all about it.”
Mulford almost nauseated the expression of his commander’s countenance while
Spike uttered the last words. At no time was that countenance very inviting, the
features being coarse and vulgar, while the color of the entire face was of an
ambiguous red, in which liquor and the seasons would seem to be blended in
very equal quantities. Such a countenance, lighted up by a gleam of successful
management, not to say with hopes and wishes that it will hardly do to dwell on,
could not but be revolting to a youth of Harry Mulford’s generous feelings, and
most of all to one who entertained the sentiments which he was quite conscious
of entertaining for Rose Budd. The young man made no reply, but turned his
face toward the water, in order to conceal the expression of disgust that he was
sensible must be strongly depicted on it.
The river, as the well-known arm of the sea in which the Swash was lying is
erroneously termed, was just at that moment unusually clear of craft, and not a
sail, larger than that of a boat, was to be seen between the end of Blackwell’s
Island and Corlaer’s Hook, a distance of about a league. This stagnation in the
movement of the port, at that particular point, was owing to the state of wind and
tide. Of the first, there was little more than a southerly air, while the last was
about two-thirds ebb. Nearly everything that was expected on that tide, coast-
wise, and by the way of the Sound, had already arrived, and nothing could go
wise, and by the way of the Sound, had already arrived, and nothing could go
eastward, with that light breeze and under canvas, until the flood made. Of
course it was different with the steamers, who were paddling about like so many
ducks, steering in all directions, though mostly crossing and re-crossing at the
ferries. Just as Mulford turned away from his commander, however, a large
vessel of that class shoved her bows into the view, doubling the Hook, and going
eastward. The first glance at this vessel sufficed to drive even Rose Budd
momentarily out of the minds of both master and mate, and to give a new current
to their thoughts. Spike had been on the point of walking up the wharf, but he
now so far changed his purpose as actually to jump on board of the brig and
spring up alongside of his mate, on the taffrail, in order to get a better look at the
steamer. Mulford, who loathed so much in his commander, was actually glad of
this, Spike’s rare merit as a seaman forming a sort of attraction that held him, as
it might be against his own will, bound to his service.
“What will they do next, Harry?” exclaimed the master, his manner and voice
actually humanized, in air and sound at least, by this unexpected view of
something new in his calling—“What will they do next?”
“I see no wheels, sir, nor any movement in the water astern, as if she were a
propeller,” returned the young man.
“She’s an out-of-the-way sort of a hussy! She’s a man-of-war, too—one of
Uncle Sam’s new efforts.”
“That can hardly be, sir. Uncle Sam has but three steamers, of any size or force,
now the Missouri is burned; and yonder is one of them, lying at the Navy Yard,
while another is, or was lately, laid up at Boston. The third is in the Gulf. This
must be an entirely new vessel, if she belong to Uncle Sam.”
“New! She’s as new as a Governor, and they tell me they’ve got so now that
they choose five or six of them, up at Albany, every fall. That craft is sea-going,
Mr. Mulford, as any one can tell at a glance. She’s none of your passenger-
hoys.”
“That’s plain enough, sir—and she’s armed. Perhaps she’s English, and they’ve
brought her here into this open spot to try some new machinery. Ay, ay! she’s
about to set her ensign to the navy men at the yard, and we shall see to whom
she belongs.”
A long, low, expressive whistle from Spike succeeded this remark, the colours of
A long, low, expressive whistle from Spike succeeded this remark, the colours of
the steamer going up to the end of a gaff on the sternmost of her schooner-rigged
masts, just as Mulford ceased speaking. There was just air enough, aided by the
steamer’s motion, to open the bunting, and let the spectators see the design.
There were the stars and stripes, as usual, but the last ran perpendicularly,
instead of in a horizontal direction.
“Revenue, by George!” exclaimed the master, as soon as his breath was
exhausted in the whistle. “Who would have believed they could screw
themselves up to doing such a thing in that bloody service?”
“I now remember to have heard that Uncle Sam was building some large
steamers for the revenue service, and, if I mistake not, with some new invention
to get along with, that is neither wheel nor propeller. This must be one of these
new craft, brought out here, into open water, just to try her, sir.”
“You’re right, sir, you’re right. As to the natur’ of the beast, you see her buntin’,
and no honest man can want more. If there’s anything I do hate, it is that flag,
with its unnat’ral stripes, up and down, instead of running in the true old way. I
have heard a lawyer say, that the revenue flag of this country is onconstitutional,
and that a vessel carrying it on the high seas might be sent in for piracy.”
Although Harry Mulford was neither Puffendorf, nor Grotius, he had too much
common sense, and too little prejudice in favour of even his own vocation, to
swallow such a theory, had fifty Cherry Street lawyers sworn to its justice. A
smile crossed his fine, firm-looking mouth, and something very like a reflection
of that smile, if smiles can be reflected in one’s own countenance, gleamed in his
fine, large, dark eye.
“It would be somewhat singular, Capt, Spike,” he said, “if a vessel belonging to
any nation should be seized as a pirate. The fact that she is national in character
would clear her.”
“Then let her carry a national flag, and be d—d to her,” answered Spike fiercely.
“I can show you law for what I say, Mr. Mulford. The American flag has its
stripes fore and aft by law, and this chap carries his stripes parpendic’lar. If I
commanded a cruiser, and fell in with one of these up and down gentry, blast me
if I wouldn’t just send him into port, and try the question in the old Alms-
House.”
Mulford probably did not think it worth while to argue the point any further,
understanding the dogmatism and stolidity of his commander too well to deem it
understanding the dogmatism and stolidity of his commander too well to deem it
necessary. He preferred to turn to the consideration of the qualities of the
steamer in sight, a subject on which, as seamen, they might better sympathize.
“That’s a droll-looking revenue cutter, after all, Capt. Spike,” he said—“a craft
better fitted to go in a fleet, as a lookout vessel, than to chase a smuggler in-
shore.”
“And no goer in the bargain! I do not see how she gets along, for she keeps all
snug under water; but, unless she can travel faster than she does just now, the
Molly Swash would soon lend her the Mother Carey’s Chickens of her own
wake to amuse her.”
“She has the tide against her, just here, sir; no doubt she would do better in still
water.”
Spike muttered something between his teeth, and jumped down on deck,
seemingly dismissing the subject of the revenue entirely from his mind. His old,
coarse, authoritative manner returned, and he again spoke to his mate about Rose
Budd, her aunt, the “ladies’ cabin,” the “young flood,” and “casting off,” as soon
as the last made. Mulford listened respectfully, though with a manifest distaste
for the instructions he was receiving. He knew his man, and a feeling of dark
distrust came over him, as he listened to his orders concerning the famous
accommodations he intended to give to Rose Budd and that “capital old lady, her
aunt;” his opinion of “the immense deal of good sea-air and a v’y’ge would do
Rose,” and how “comfortable they both would be on board the Molly Swash.”
“I honour and respect, Mrs. Budd, as my captain’s lady, you see, Mr. Mulford,
and intend to treat her accordin’ly. She knows it—and Rose knows it—and they
both declare they’d rather sail with me, since sail they must, than with any other
shipmaster out of America.”
“You sailed once with Capt. Budd yourself, I think I have heard you say, sir?”
“The old fellow brought me up. I was with him from my tenth to my twentieth
year, and then broke adrift to see fashions. We all do that, you know, Mr.
Mulford, when we are young and ambitious, and my turn came as well as
another’s.”
“Capt. Budd must have been a good deal older than his wife, sir, if you sailed
with him when a boy,” Mulford observed a little drily.
